


Remember This

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: Sherlock doesn't want to forget anything.





	Remember This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/gifts).



> For the Come at Once 2018 challenge, in reply to Vulgarweed's prompt: "You must remember this."
> 
> It could be argued that I took the prompt a wee bit too literally. 
> 
> Infinite thanks to 221bJen for the beta and solid advice.
> 
> EDIT: The lovely and talented Lockedinjohnlock was kind enough to podfic this. Please check it out. It was an honor to hear that rich, expressive voice say these humble words. Thanks, friend. [Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16549427)

It’s going to happen, then. They’ve hurt each other in so many ways, but tonight, for once, for a single bloody hour, they’ll lock all that away. Tonight, simply, they will love each other. 

Sherlock knows he shouldn’t, that this one night has the potential to tear them apart, but he’s wanted him for so long, wants John like he wants oxygen, and he is so, so tired of denying it. He gives a gentle nod, and the air changes between them, growing thick with feeling, starting to crackle with electricity. 

They’ll have one night, and Sherlock can’t let himself forget a moment.  _ Remember this, _ Sherlock tells himself fervently,  _ remember everything. _

They’d built a large fire tonight, extravagant in its warmth, and the flames dance in John’s deep blue eyes. There’s an intensity there Sherlock has rarely seen, and it’s certainly never been aimed his direction.  _ Desire, _ Sherlock thinks with surprise. John  _ wants _ him.  _ Remember how that feels, _ Sherlock thinks, how it echoes through the bones.

Remember John’s first touch, one finger sliding down the back of Sherlock’s wrist; remember the warmth of John’s hand and the flex of his fingers. Remember the texture of John’s skin, dry and smooth, a doctor’s skin. John’s hand, so strong around a gun, so careful with a scalpel, now curling around Sherlock’s own. Their fingers intertwining, squeezing each other’s hands tightly. He can feel John’s pulse in his own fingers, Sherlock realizes with surprise.  _ Remember that. _

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, the deep breath John takes before he stands, the sound as his jeans brush against the chair, and the slight click of his knees as he straightens. Remember the breathless pause as John stands above him and they gaze at each other, a last moment of opportunity for either to look the other way.  _ Remember that, _ Sherlock thinks, that long stare through a veil of hunger and emotion. 

Then John smiles, a warm and reassuring curve of the lips that reaches his eyes. He’s decided he’s sure about this, Sherlock realizes, and feels his own heart stutter from the shock of it.  _ Remember that, _ Sherlock thinks, remember that this decision was actively and repeatedly made, that the desire was considered and reconsidered and finally confirmed. He tightens his fingers as he looks up at John, his own lips curving in an answering smile. He wouldn’t have to remember the moment of his own decision, he reflects. It had passed years ago.

A moment slips by as they smile at each other, and then slowly, John bends to kiss him.

_ Oh. _

_ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, oh god in heaven, remember this, the press of lips, soft, the complicated texture of skin and the mere hint of moisture, the brush of noses, the catch of John’s breath as Sherlock’s own lips move to answer. The taste of him, Christ, beautiful, ozone in a lightning storm, the perfect glass of wine. Remember John’s mouth opening to him now, the gentle tease of John’s tongue. 

And the sounds,  _ remember them, _ he thinks, the little gasps and sighs and hums of encouragement. The sweetest words in a language known only by two. The rumblings of contentment and hunger, low in the throat, tasted as well as heard.

John pulls back, slowly, eyes half-lidded, licking his lips as if to prolong the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth on his.  _ Remember that, _ Sherlock thinks. John is savouring this. He’s affected, too. Sherlock lets his gaze drift downward, and yes, John is definitely affected.  _ Please, please, _ Sherlock thinks,  _ remember that. Remember how it feels to have John Watson aroused by the taste and feel of you.  _

John tugs at his hand, and Sherlock flushes to be caught staring at the bulge in his trousers. John doesn’t seem to mind, though. “Come to bed,” he whispers, and oh, Sherlock will have no problem remembering that  _ at all. _

The exact pressure of John’s hand in his, pulling Sherlock up from his chair, though, that is something he’ll work to remember. Rising to his feet and finding himself crowded by John’s powerful body and even more powerful presence, feeling the heat of both his skin and his gaze; yes, that, too.

John makes a motion toward the kitchen with his head, lifting his eyebrows in question, and it takes Sherlock, so busy gathering data, a moment to understand. His bedroom? Of course, and his own eager nod draws an honest, open grin and a wink in reply.  _ Remember that, _ Sherlock thinks, that moment of playfulness. Remember John teasing him, flirting, even while his cock is sitting heavy in his jeans.

They make their way down the hall.  _ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, the charged collisions in passing, the numerous pauses to kiss against the papered walls, the echoes of their scrambling feet and their shadows merging, coming apart, and merging again. 

Together they pause at Sherlock’s door, and John reaches for the doorknob. Sherlock frowns in concentration:  _ remember this,  _ he thinks,  _ every time you walk in here, _ remember the door pushing open, silent on its hinges, and the wooden floor creaking under their joined weight. Remember the shush of their bare feet against the wood as they make their way, hands joined, to the bed.

Sherlock stops at his bedside, uncertain as he never is, and John raises his hands and kisses his knuckles in reverence.  _ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, remember the thrill that sweeps through his body at John’s gentle touch.

He’ll remember, too, the visual of John’s hands, so sure, carefully unbuttoning Sherlock’s cuffs, and smiling up through his eyelashes. Those strong hands reaching for Sherlock’s collar with infinite care, and lifting Sherlock’s to his own chest to do the same, the sweet smile of patience on his face at marked odds with the anxious strain of his cock against his flies.

John slides the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders; Sherlock tells himself to remember how John’s eyes widen though he’s seen him shirtless many times before, but never for this, not like this. He’ll remember the dart of John’s tongue through his lips as he lets his eyes drift down Sherlock’s frame, lingering on the collarbone, the nipples, the curve of Sherlock’s abdomen.

He’ll remember, too, the look on John’s face when his eyes reach that certain scar and hover there too long, until Sherlock can’t take it for another second. He moves to add John’s shirt to the loose pile of fabric at their feet, and judging from John’s sudden, seemingly grateful kiss, that was the right thing to do.

_ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, as he feels John’s clever fingers slipping down to Sherlock’s waistband, slowly sliding down his flies; he’ll remember the way John stops to rub his fingers together before slipping them into Sherlock’s trousers and letting them slide once, so lightly, down the silk-covered edges of his aching cock.

That memory is seared into his mind’s eye, clean and precise, so clear it feels like its own kind of madness. What’s even better is that Sherlock will never forget how John’s gasp echoes his own, and the hunger in the kiss that follows.

_ Remember how this feels, _ Sherlock thinks, the subtle shift when he suddenly takes charge. He’ll remember the flare in John’s eyes as Sherlock rises to his full height and says John’s name in his deepest voice, the way his pupils blow wide when Sherlock knocks his hands off his body and out of the way.

_ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, how John surrenders, lets you unbutton and unzip him; remember how your hands are steady even though your knees are shaking, your whole body an electric wire. Remember how he smiles his answer when you ask with your eyes, and you both look down to watch his jeans slip down his hips.

_ Remember these sounds, _ Sherlock thinks, John’s groan and Sherlock’s in echo, the hint of the first letters of Sherlock’s name hissed through clenched teeth as Sherlock takes him in hand. He’ll remember forever the silky steel of John’s erection, seemingly made to fit in his hand. He’ll remember too the clean masculine smell of him, a scent that goes straight to his own cock and makes him keen with want.

John’s eyes flash in surprise as Sherlock pushes him to the bed, and there’s a sharp intake of his breath as Sherlock drops down to his knees. Sherlock  _ loves _ that sound, adores it.  _ Remember that, _ he thinks, as he leans in to trail the tip of his tongue along John’s rigid cock.

_ Oh, god. _

_ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks wildly, the taste of him, better even than that first kiss. More  _ John,  _ somehow, reduced and concentrated like a demi glace, a representation of his very essence. Sherlock buries his nose into the crease of his hip and thigh and savours the musk of him, even stronger here, and growing more powerful as John’s arousal increases.  _ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks. Remember the goosebumps that follow after Sherlock’s touch along John’s thigh, a ridiculous word for a pleasure so acute. Sherlock noses up the length of his cock and thinks,  _ remember this, _ John’s moan, light and soft, as though he’s afraid of being a distraction to this most important business.  _ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how carefully John places his hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock hums as he slides his mouth down him. That hand clenches, and then soothes.

John is easy to read, expressive, demonstrative, but still: Sherlock might never get another chance, he thinks, so he has to remember that John cries out at the feel of Sherlock’s tongue as it wraps around him, moans at the merest brush of Sherlock’s teeth as he takes John deeper and deeper.  

Sherlock swallows around him, and John shouts. Sherlock will never, never forget that.

John is thick in Sherlock’s mouth, growing impossibly hard, and it occurs to Sherlock that this might be it, this might be all he gets of him, and while swallowing John’s come has its appeal  _ (oh god, yes, it does), _ Sherlock wants more.

Sherlock wants memories to last a lifetime.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, John’s little groan as he slides off, Sherlock licking his lips to claim every last taste of him. John’s eyes are at first fogged with pleasure, but grow clearer as Sherlock grips him more firmly. Sherlock has his attention, and does not intend to waste it.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John’s eyes narrow when Sherlock’s voice comes out hoarsely, his throat rough from use. John likes that, Sherlock deduces, likes the thought of it, and his suspicions are confirmed when John lets go of Sherlock’s hair and slides his hand lightly up Sherlock’s neck. John’s eyes glisten fiercely; he likes having been there.  He’s territorial,  Sherlock realizes, and Sherlock can use this to his advantage.

Sherlock will not bother to remember how he asks. There’s no delicate way to ask for such an indelicate act; it’s awkward and fumbling. What matters is what comes after.  _ Remember everything, _ Sherlock thinks, _that comes after._

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how he’s never seen this look before, not on John’s face, not ever, in all these many years of friendship and fighting. There’s no word for it, and Sherlock stares at him wordlessly, helplessly, wondering if he’s gone too far.

But then.  _ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how it feels to realize that John’s hands have flown to Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock has been pulled sharply up onto the bed. It’s confusing and sudden, and before Sherlock is able to orient himself, John is on top of him, spread out along his long body and weighing him down into the mattress. John’s mouth is on him, his neck, his face, his chest, and that is nothing short of a miracle, but Sherlock is still wearing his trousers, and that is wrong, very wrong. John seems to come to the same conclusion at exactly the same time, and Sherlock is fairly certain he just lost a button or two as John makes quick work of his fastenings.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, _ to look for those buttons tomorrow. _ They’d make excellent mementos of this one indelible night.

Then, _ remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how John fairly dives back on top of him, lining up against him, his cock still moist from Sherlock’s mouth and granite hard against Sherlock’s own throbbing erection. “Yes,” John whispers urgently in Sherlock’s ear. “God, yes, Sherlock, will you let me?” And the fire is back in his eyes.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how desperately he says the word “yes,” the catch in his own voice, the clutch of his fingers into John’s powerful, scarred shoulders.

_ Don’t bother remembering getting the lube, or the condom, for that matter, _ Sherlock thinks. It was clumsy and boring. He does want to remember John pulling back to his knees, the click of the tube and the slow rubbing of his fingers as he licks his lips, staring into Sherlock’s eyes with what looks like wonder. “How do you want it?” he asks quietly, and there’s another phrase Sherlock will never, ever forget.

“Like this,” Sherlock answers, arching his back. “I want to see you.”  _ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, the expression on John’s face when he says that, because Sherlock will need decades to define all the things he sees in it. Remember, too, the shudder that runs through John’s body, the way he closes his eyes and looks away for a moment, the slight flush that rises to his cheeks.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, the answering flush on his own face, how it spreads down his neck to his shoulders and chest. Remember feeling that his body, glowing red, shimmering with feeling, might be about to combust.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how he feels right now, because he knows, he _knows_ that what is about to happen will change him.

_ Remember at all costs, _ Sherlock thinks, John’s hand on Sherlock’s right knee, guiding his legs gently apart with the soft touch of his fingers on Sherlock’s inner thigh. Remember John’s finger rubbing gently at first at that most sensitive of areas, and then starting to press, and  _ oh, Christ... _ remember it slipping inside, turning, pushing, circling, coated thick with lube. Sherlock is tense at first, but John leans forward to murmur in Sherlock’s ear, comforting and praising in turns, and Sherlock finally relaxes and opens for him.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, the second finger easing in, bringing with it somehow more than twice the pressure, and it has been  _ such _ a long time since Sherlock has done this, but John’s voice in his ear tells him how good it’s going to be, and Sherlock believes him.  _ Remember this, _ Sherlock thinks: he should always, always believe John. John will not hurt him. John would not lie.

The third finger, and now Sherlock is ready for it, growing hungry for it. He pushes back against John and  _ remember this, _ Sherlock thinks, remember how it feels to take control again, to actively prepare his own body for John’s cock. John’s eyes are wide, and his body trembles with restraint (John still wants him, Sherlock needs to remember that), but his voice is calm and steady and his hands, at least, are sure.

Finally, Sherlock is ready.  _ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how it feels to tell John it is time. Remember how his eyes darken, how he stops to look Sherlock over, Sherlock’s body still flushed, sweating and quivering with arousal. Remember how he looks into Sherlock’s eyes as he hovers over him, how his voice shakes when he asks, just one more time, if Sherlock is sure.

_ Remember, _ Sherlock thinks, how his own voice sounds when instead of affirming, he begs. “Please, John,” he says. “Please.”

Sherlock won’t ever forget how it feels when John presses into him with exquisite care. He won’t. He can’t possibly. He will remember that until his dying day. 

Instead, he tries at first to focus on the little things: John’s hips pressing against his when he’s fully seated, the twinge of pleasure and pain he feels when John first experimentally circles his hips; the sweat that forms between their bellies where they press and rub together; John’s eyes, fierce and glowing, locked on Sherlock’s with laser-like focus. It works for a while, a couple of minutes, perhaps, but John starts to move with increasing urgency, and it feels…it feels...

It feels so  _ bloody good.  _

“God, John,” Sherlock rasps out, and John gasps when he hears it and drives in harder, faster, and then as his hips start to stutter, he takes hold of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock immediately comes so hard he can’t remember his own name.

\---

_ Remember this, _ John thinks, watching Sherlock sleep. Remember how beautiful he is lying here, his hair spread over the pillow, his skin luminous in the pale London sunrise, the peace in his sleep-eased face.  _ Remember,  _ John thinks, _ that you held him, and you kissed him, and that for a while you had him, and you loved him well. _

Morning is coming now, and Sherlock will wake, and it will be uncomfortable and awkward for a time, yes, but John wouldn’t have missed this night for anything. He’ll remember, John thinks, the feeling of Sherlock’s body beneath him, the passion in his eyes, the hunger in his voice until his own dying day.  _ It was worth it, _ John thinks. 

Sherlock stirs, and John’s breath catches.

_ Remember this, _ John thinks, as he watches Sherlock wake, observing his verdigris eyes blink open slowly, turn inward with disorientation, and then, as awareness comes, narrow with confusion.

“You’re still here,” Sherlock rasps, voice rough with sleep.

John sighs. He was expecting it, but still. “I am,” he answers quietly, “but I’ll go now.”

“No, don’t!” Sherlock says quickly, reaching out to grab John’s wrist as he turns to leave. John turns back to face him, eyes wide. Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Please,” Sherlock says, calmer now. “Please. Stay.”

John blinks.

“Please,” Sherlock repeats, uncertain now. “If you...if you’d like. It would be...good. If you’d stay.”

John considers him for a long moment. “I’d like to,” he says slowly. “Stay, that is.” He hesitates. “I’d like to stay.”

_ Remember this, _ John thinks fiercely, the joy that spreads across Sherlock’s face, making him look young and happy.

“Last night…” Sherlock offers tentatively. “Last night was…”

“Perfect,” John finishes, and he can’t help it, he starts to laugh. “It was  _ perfect.” _

“Yes. Perfect,” Sherlock echoes, with the beginnings of an answering smile. He reaches out to trace one long finger down John’s grinning cheek. “I’ll never forget it."

John leans over for a kiss, pausing just before their lips meet. “I won’t let you,” he whispers, and means it.

 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, just want to say, I wrote this very quickly while on vacation with my kids, and I completely missed having John wear a condom for the blow job. Um, don't do that, kids. Wear condoms, and stay in school.


End file.
